


Sparrow's Whumptober 2020

by ScrambledSparrow



Category: Original Work
Genre: ALL CHAPTERS TAGGED ACCORDINGLY TO SAVE SPACE, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Power Imbalance, Pre-Relationship, Recovery, Sexual Coercion, Suggestive Themes, Trauma, Violence, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, this is actively condemned in the text but PLEASE read the tags on each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrambledSparrow/pseuds/ScrambledSparrow
Summary: Prompt fills for the wonderful whumptober challenge! All chapters are tagged in the index and before the chapter begins. All characters belong to myself and my girlfriend, who somehow puts up with all of my shenanigans. Please assume they get a happy ending because right now I'm just here to break them. :')
Relationships: Gray & Joe, Gray/Joe, Original Character(s) & Original Character(s), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Ryley/Avery, Vesper/Morgan, one-sided Vesper/Morgan, pre-relationship Gray & Joe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Whumptober, Whumptober 2020





	1. INTRO / INDEX

Hello and welcome! I don't have much to say other than prepare for angst. 

If you have any questions about my characters or my stories, I'd be thrilled to talk about them more at length! Feedback gives me some much-needed energy and a will to write, lmao. You might notice that some of these connect into each other- I'll leave a hyperlink in the beginning/end notes if applicable! Most of the time, if they feature the same characters then they're related in some way. 

**DAY 1: Waking Up Restrained | Shackled**. _Head trauma, claustrophobia, kidnapping, restraints, implied physical violence, implied character death._

 **DAY 2: Kidnapped**. _Non-consensual drug use, derealization, kidnapping, restraint, handcuffs, self-sacrifice, creepy captor, electrocution, taser, knife violence, minor character death, implied gun violence._

 **DAY 3: Held at Gunpoint**. _Organized crime, gun violence, death threats, blackmail._

 **DAY 4: Buried Alive | Collapsed Building**. _Trespassing, blood, collapsed structure, buried alive, claustrophobia, immobilized, nondescript injury, narrator in shock._

 **DAY 5: Failed Escape**. _Head trauma, physical violence, restraint, kidnapping, MAJOR character death, graphic description of previous death, graphic description of violence, graphic injury, knife violence, paranoia._

 **DAY 6: No More | “Stop, please”**. _Non-consensual touching (sfw but suggestive), medical trauma, manipulation, vivisection, blood and injury, implied abusive relationship, restraints, begging, extremely graphic injury, surgery while awake, power imbalance, explicit gore, narrator in shock._

 **DAY 7: Enemy to Caretaker**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 8: “Don’t Say Goodbye”**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 9: Ritual Sacrifice (+ Science Gone Wrong)**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 10: Blood Loss | Trail of Blood**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 11: Defiance | Struggling**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 12: Broken Down | Broken Trust**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 13: Oxygen Mask**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 14: Branding**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 15: Science Gone Wrong**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 16: Forced to Beg | Hallucinations**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 17: Alt prompts (Nightmares | Found Family)**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 18: Panic Attacks | Paranoia**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 19: Grief | Mourning Loved One**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 20: Lost**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 21: Hypothermia**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 22: Drugged**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 23: Exhaustion | Narcolepsy**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 24: Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 25: Disorientation | Ringing Ears**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 26: Alt Prompts (Comfort | Carry/Support)**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 27: Power Outage**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 28: ? ? ?**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 29: ? ? ?**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 30: ? ? ?**. _Content warnings here._

 **DAY 31: ? ? ?**. _Content warnings here._


	2. Day 01 - Waking Up Restrained | Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe has a terrible, no good, very bad day. Things only get worse from here. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: head trauma, claustrophobia, kidnapping, restraints, implied physical violence, implied character death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joe's gonna die shortly after this. But he'll get better. He's not off the hook that easily.
> 
> Also, this is canon! Despite the dozens of AUs I've written for this terrible man, this is the primary timeline and shit hasn't even gone down yet.

His head _hurts_. He feels like he has the world’s worst hangover. Joe opens his eyes and groans, blinking hard a few times before it registers that everything is black. He can’t see. He wants to sit up and scrub at his face, try to wake himself up a little bit. 

He can’t move.

Joe stills, awareness tricking in slowly. His breath starts to come a little faster as an animalistic fear fills his lungs. Where the fuck is he? His legs are bent at a graceless angle and his arms are wrenched behind his back. He pulls harder and realizes his wrists and ankles are tied with something coarse. There’s something hard pressing against his hip. Everything is shaking, making his thoughts harder to hold onto. When he thrashes in a blind panic, the bindings don’t have any give. 

He can’t straighten his legs. With a little testing, whatever he’s up against is firm and solid. It’s a strange shape that he can’t quite figure out, curved and sharp with extra space in the middle. He forces himself to try and breathe, pushing down the rising tide of panic. This is fine. He’ll be okay. It might suck for a short while, sure, but eventually he’ll be able to leave. 

Somebody put him here. He’s thinking a mile a minute, trying to figure out what they want with him. Ransom? Nobody will miss him and he doesn’t have any money, so that’s probably crossed off. Intimidation? A little heavy-handed if that’s true—he doesn’t think he pissed anyone off enough for that, either. Someone who gets off on killing? He’s a loner, he’s only been in town for two months, he’s got a slim build and he’s a little short.... yeah, that might have some weight to it. Hopefully they make it quick and he can get on with his life. 

He’s too lost in his own sluggish thoughts to be paying much attention. Without warning the ground dips low and then slams into him, surging up to meet his shoulder and his face – it takes a disoriented minute for the realization to click into place with a wash of ice-cold fear. 

He’s in the trunk of a car. 

Squirming in place, Joe tries to figure out what the fuck happened. He was coming home from a job interview so he could earn a little extra. The guy didn’t seem particularly impressed, but Joe really didn’t think he fucked up badly enough to warrant kidnapping him. He remembers leaving the store. He walked for a few blocks—it couldn’t have been the interviewer, then. There’s a hazy spot after that. 

The car hits another bump and he hisses, trying to roll on his side to protect his face. There’s a throbbing pain in his head though, and the new position makes it so much worse. His stomach churns as he tries to swallow down the wave of nausea. 

While he wouldn’t mind inconveniencing someone by puking all over their trunk- especially someone who kidnapped him- he doesn’t want to puke on _himself_ in the process. 

Distantly, he realizes that he doesn’t know the symptoms of a concussion. He’s probably had a dozen but he’s never actually survived any of them—at least not any that he can remember. Does dying fix that? Probably. It’s fixed so much more than smacking his head on the ground, he’d be pretty pissed off if it didn’t. Besides, Joe thinks he would _know_ if he was concussed. Or, well, maybe not. His head really hurts. 

He’s left panting and squirming in the dark for god knows how long. He can’t get comfortable. That’s a very petty concern, sure, but it’s the only thing he can actively control so it’s what he forces himself to focus on. He grunts when he’s jostled and pulled to one side as the car turns, sliding across the floor of the trunk.

He realizes belatedly he could have tried to track the turns, figure out a way back, but he missed so many in the beginning that it’s kind of useless now. Every bump jostles his awkward positioning and makes his head hurt worse, blooming white-hot against the discomfort of everything else. 

Everything gets sharp and uneven and Joe groans. The tires crunch over what he thinks is gravel; he’s rattled around enough he can barely think and they drive like that for a while. He manages to turn his head and notes distantly that the back of his head feels wet. Sweat? Blood? He’s not sure.

And suddenly, they jolt to a stop. The car has stopped moving a few times– intersections or stop signs, probably– but this time the ignition is actually switched off. Joe freezes, breath coming sharp and fast. Fuck. 

The car rocks and a door slams. Distantly, he can hear muffled voices and then the crunch of footsteps. Multiple people? The darkness presses down on him. Anticipation crushes his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. The driver walks around the car, and he hears the fumble and warning of movement outside the trunk. He has a chance to try and escape. 

The door pops open and there are hands on his body. Shoulders, ribs, knees. He’s being rolled onto his back and hoisted into the air. Joe thrashes, trying to kick with his legs tied together, hoping he can hit the edge of the trunk and shove them both off balance. He can’t run. He has no way to untie himself. But he has to try. 

“Put me down, goddamn son of a bitter ch-“ he snarls, but he’s slung up roughly and suddenly everything flips upside down. The screams die in his throat as all of the blood rushes to his head. He may or may not black out for a second as his headache flares. He’s slung over the driver’s shoulder. No matter how hard he thrashes, the guy doesn’t budge. He feels solid, made entirely of muscle, and Joe’s panic turns into a solid icy fear. 

Oh, he’s so incredibly screwed. 

His breathing is starting to come rapid and shallow now. Maybe if he squirms enough, the guy will drop him and he’ll break his neck. Joe wriggles and tries to throw himself forward, but a hand grabs him by the ankle and keeps him from lurching any further. He’s roughly pulled back down so his hips are at about shoulder level. There’s no room to try and dump himself forwards even though he’s still upside down. 

“Put me the fuck down,” he hisses, bucking and twisting. The driver doesn’t say anything or even seem inconvenienced. He just sighs, readjusts Joe for the third time and starts walking. He’s completely ignoring the smaller man. He could be a damn sack of potatoes for all this guy seems to care. 

A door opens; the guy is careful to pin Joe’s ankles so he can’t try and kick the doorway. Not that it would really do anything, but he’s certainly desperate enough to try. The bastard doesn’t even seem strained at all despite a fully grown man slung over his shoulder. 

There’s another door clicking open, the stomp of heavy boots on maybe-wood floors. And suddenly they’re moving down. Joe flails, more out of an instinctual fear of falling than actually planned escape. His kidnapper just holds him tighter, entirely unbothered. Stairs. It feels like he’s being carried down a flight of stairs. 

It’s not long at all before Joe is being flipped upright again. He wants to bark more profanities but the sudden movement makes his head spin, blood settling back where it belongs and skull being split open by the sudden rush. He’s placed on the ground and lets out a thin curse as his arms are pulled up over his head despite being tied by the small of his back. He’s definitely not meant to bend like this. He doesn’t think the driver especially cares. 

His head is pounding, even when he screws his eyes shut underneath the blindfold. It’s easier to hold still for a moment to try and ease the awful headache. He loses the chance to lash out. The rope is pulled from his arms but his wrists are pinned to the wall, first by the driver’s firm hands and then by something tight and metal that snaps into place.

Shackles. He’s being shackled to the wall. 

Joe groans, an odd mix of fear and pain and irritation bubbling up in his chest. The shackles pinch and hold his arms up above his head, but at least they’re not forced together at such an awful angle anymore. Goddamn motherfucker can’t even go with anything creative, huh? It feels so _cliche_.

Boots scuff on the ground. The door upstairs clicks closed. He’s silent for a long moment, listening hard, but it sounds like he’s alone. Joe laughs, strained and bitter. Of course. Not like he was expecting anything else. He’ll probably be murdered and then dumped on the side of a road somewhere. Pain in the damn ass... Hopefully it’s close enough to figure out how to get back to town after he resurrects. 

His apartment still has all of his shit in it, so he’s at least going back for some clothes, his laptop, whatever cash he can scrounge up. He’s probably going to have to up and split again. He’d really prefer not to encounter the dude who kidnapped him a second time. And god only knows if his corpse will be discovered beforehand. Ugh. 

“Fucker,” he grumbles to himself, trying to shake the blindfold off. Even rubbing his face against his shoulder, it won’t budge. Fine. Whatever. 

Joe is left sitting in the dark, bored and annoyed. His shoulders are starting to cramp from being twisted up, but it’s more comfortable than being folded in half in the trunk of a car. His terror fades into a dull and staticky boredom. The floor is cold against his jeans, something hard and kind of gritty. Concrete, maybe, or dirty tile. The wall is rough against his back. Twisting his wrists to try and touch, it feels like brick. 

There’s nothing to do but wait for his probable execution. Joe sighs and closes his eyes, resting his chin against his chest. He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520577/chapters/65910655) Spoiler alert: he was correct.


	3. Day 02 - Kidnapped | Pick Who Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has to be some kind of record to be kidnapped twice, right? Joe's luck continues to run out. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: non-consensual drug use, derealization, kidnapping, restraint, handcuffs, self-sacrifice, creepy captor, electrocution, taser, knife violence, on-screen (minor) character death, implied gun violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing a little bit of chronological time-hopping here. Grayson and Joe are married. This is an AU - canon Joe never has to meet Cassidy, thankfully. We'll probably see another scene from this timeline but I haven't decided.

It’s warm for the season, he muses, rolling his sleeves up while he waits in line. It’s too late in the year for the grocery store to run the air conditioner so the air was hot and stale. Summer was technically over, sure, but the weather never got the memo. The heat clung in stubborn waves and Joe was glad for it. Even if he wasn’t particularly fond of warm weather, summer was always easier. More food, more people, more opportunities. More places to lick his wounds and get back on his feet when he hit a rough patch. 

The dropping temperature never did his husband any favors. Grayson’s limp became particularly aggressive when the weather turned cold, pain leaching through his abdomen and up his spine. He could sympathize. It made Joe’s shoulders ache more than usual, made his hands shake a little more. It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t cold. The warm spell was definitely appreciated.

He hums to himself as he sets his groceries on the belt, giving the cashier a bright smile and a chirped hello. It’s hard to keep himself grounded when it’s so nice outside. The weather is supposed to hold for a few days, so maybe he and Gray can do something together. He thinks about what they have at home, whether or not he could sneak food out bit by bit to make a surprise picnic. Grayson always likes to read outside and taking a nap curled against his hip sounds lovely. But then again, one of the restaurants around here had opened a dining pavilion recently, didn’t they? Maybe they could go there.

Lost in his daydreams, Joe pays and collects his groceries. He pushes his cart outside and stands on the sidewalk for a lingering moment, basking in the sun. It feels nice, warm and inviting. If he stands here too long though he’ll get drowsy, so he fishes his keys from his pocket. It’s not a very big lot, but he’s been parking further away for an excuse to walk more. 

This is the first time he’s come to regret it. 

He passes a bank of cars and is yanked backward. Joe lets out a startled yelp as a hand covers his mouth, blunt nails digging into his jaw. There’s a sharp pinch on the back of his neck. He thrashes, pulled off balance. The person behind him traps his arms at his sides, pinning him to their chest. They’re thin and not much taller than him—but they have an alarming amount of strength. 

Joe panics. Grayson has taught him a little bit of self-defense, but he’s drawing a complete blank. He bucks and throws an elbow back, sloppy but desperate. It does _something_. The person behind him grunts and he feels a flicker of success. Their grip slips for a second and he tears free. He flings himself forward and tries to dart away. Something fucks up. Everything feels wrong. He stumbles and they grab him again; his head is wrenched to the side as he snaps weakly. His jaw aches from the pressure.

He tries to shout and thrash his way free; all he can manage is a thin, gurgling whine. He’s losing control of his body. What the fuck is happening to him? He can’t breathe. The hand over his mouth and nose feels like the muzzle. He’s being crushed in a vice, ribs constricting. Everything is starting to turn liquid around him. Fear surges hot and sharp through his body, but it clashes with the cottony confusion in his head. 

There are wisps of blond hair at the edges of his vision. The ground tilts and ripples. Joe staggers, a nervous keen bubbling out of his throat, grabbing for something to steady himself but he can’t move his arms. He tries to pull away. It doesn’t work. He’s held firm to a warm body, angular and lean. 

Someone coos to him, comforts him, but it feels wrong. His legs crumple and he’s held up by the arms around his body. They did this to him, this, this… _whatever_ it was. Awareness is starting to abandon him, limbs loose and tension bleeding from his body. The arm holding him in place slackens and Joe whines as he slumps backward. 

He paws for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing there. His wedding ring glints in the sunlight. The color bleeds out of everything and he stares at the ground as it spins, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out what the fuck is happening. He can’t support his own weight. Everything lists to the side. 

His last lucid thought is a distant worry that his car will be ticketed for parking overnight. 

-

When he wakes, he feels cold. 

Groggy, Joe stirs and tries to figure out what happened. Everything is… bright. He squints hard as he opens his eyes, only to see someone staring right back at him.

He startles hard and several things register at once. He does not know where the fuck he is. His hands are cuffed above his head, prickling and numb from lack of movement. His head hurts. Most alarmingly, he is staring at his own reflection, copied a thousand times over and grimacing back at him with prickling unease. The room is lined with mirrors, reflections overlapping from various angles.

The body in the corner almost doesn’t register. 

He glances at it when he sees a shape in the mirrors, only to whip back around with a cry of alarm. What the _fuck_. There’s a man lying broken and bloody against the wall to his left, head lolled to the side and legs splayed in front of him. Any hope of getting out of this unscathed evaporates. The body’s eyes are still open, staring blankly at nothing. And then he blinks. Joe feels sick when he realizes the guy is still alive. 

He wants to ask if the guy is okay and then nearly chokes on a hysterical laugh. Of course he’s not okay. Neither of them are okay, actually. Even if he said anything, the other man isn’t here anymore. He’s staring at something that Joe can’t see, breathing shallow and pained. He can’t see where the worst injuries are. He doesn’t know if this guy has an actual chance of survival if he manages to get out, and for the thousandth time in his life, Joe is bitter over how fragile humans are. 

He tries a few times. He has to. If there’s anything he could do to save this man, he would do it. But the guy doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even acknowledge that he heard Joe. So he falls quiet. Guilty and angry and afraid. 

He tries to take stock of the situation. He’s sitting in a headache-inducing mirror room stained with blood, handcuffed to something behind him after being kidnapped. It’s the basement all over again, but so much bigger and so horrifyingly empty. The fact this happened once in his life is bad enough, but fucking _twice_? 

There are no cameras that he can see, though. And no weapons. That’s a little more unnerving since he doesn’t know what to expect. And… Grayson. 

Oh, god, Grayson. 

His husband is going to be frantic when Joe doesn’t come home. He doesn’t know what time it is or how long he’s already been gone. Grayson will come looking for him. He knows that for certain, as undeniable as whatever awful fate is awaiting him in the next few hours. He’s just not sure if Gray will be able to find him before it’s too late. 

Joe laughs, high and jagged with terror. Oh, he’s so incredibly fucked. His hands are numb and clumsy, but he’s able to wriggle his fingers enough to ascertain that his wedding ring is still there. Relief barely pricks through the dread building in his chest, but it’s still there. Grayson is probably already looking for him. Gray will find him. It’ll be okay. 

-

It’s another hour or two of sitting in silence, squirming in the handcuffs, staring at the barely-conscious man opposite from him. He’s covered in blood. His clothes are sliced with what looks like knife wounds. His shin looks almost burnt. It makes Joe’s stomach turn, anxious and unsettled. He doesn’t know what to expect other than misery. 

There’s a soft click and the wounded man gasps, straightening up as much as he can. The door opens. Joe whips around as someone steps into the room. 

It’s a guy. Thin, with long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. It’s too dark to see anything behind him—not enough detail to figure out where they are, or what time it might be—and the mystery man pulls the door shut with a very final _click_. It’s locked. Of course it is. 

The blond guy crouches down in front of him, head tilted to the side. He gives the smaller man the kind of broad smile that immediately raises red flags. 

“Glad to see you’re awake, Joe. You had me worried for a bit,” the man laughs, patting his knee. He freezes. Why... why does he know Joe’s name? He’s never seen this guy before in his life. Or if he has, he can’t remember him. Joe snarls and tries to kick him, but the guy simply stands up and steps out of the way. 

“Ooh, you’re a fighter, aren’t you? That’s fun! I was going to see how long it would take to break you.” 

“Eat shit, asshole,” Joe snaps, covering his fear with anger. The man– who he later comes to know is called Cassidy– just laughs and crouches down again, safely outside of kicking range. The smile on his face is wide and warm, but there’s a cold satisfaction in his eyes. 

“That’s fun. Here. I’m feeling generous and I’ll make you a deal.” Cassidy offers him a hand, eyes glittering with amusement when Joe just glares up at him. “Oops! Almost forgot about the handcuffs.” He reaches into his pocket and keeps his hand there, green gaze trained on Joe’s face. 

For his part, Joe tries to keep his expression neutral even while his anxiety surges, hot and suffocating. He knows this game all too well. There’s a frantic animalistic part of him that’s drowning out everything else, the need to escape in the face of oncoming pain. There’s nowhere to go. 

“I’ll keep this simple. You get to pick!” Cassidy chirps, slowly standing back up with that awful grin. His hand doesn’t come out of his pocket, and every leering reflection surrounding them doesn’t give any hint as to what he might have. “You, or him?”

Joe blinks. His heart plummets. “What?”

“You get to choose. You, or him?” Cassidy repeats, nodding to the bloodied man. Joe looks over at him, quick and furtive, trying to figure out what Cassidy gets out of this. Amusement, apparently. The sick fuck enjoys this. 

A year or two ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to pick himself. He’s been through worse. Even if it kills him, he would come back. Nobody else was that lucky. But for the first time, Joe hesitates. He has a husband. He has a house and a cat and a life, comfortable and happy. He’s been spoiled. 

There’s an awful self-loathing boiling up in his chest, eyes stinging. He wants to choose the other man. He wants to let himself be selfish for the first time in his fucking life. And he knows he can’t. No matter what happens to him here, he would never be able to live with the guilt. 

He stares at the wounded man, drifting in and out of wretched awareness. There’s a chance he’ll die of his injuries anyways. He’s already been through so much. Maybe it would be a mercy if it finally killed him. 

Joe takes a deep breath and feels a piece of himself break. “Me.”

Cassidy blinks once, expression unwavering as he gives an exaggerated shrug. His smile makes Joe uneasy, but maybe that’s because he already knows what kind of monster he’s looking at. 

“Suit yourself.” 

He pulls something out of his pocket and points it at Joe, fast enough he can’t register anything other than it’s dark and boxy and oh fuck he’s holding a fucking gun. 

Cassidy pulls the trigger. 

It’s not as loud as he remembers. There’s hardly any sound, actually. The bullet hits him in the thigh and everything whites out. 

Every muscle in his body goes rigid at the same time as he spasms. Joe wheezes, feeling wound so tightly he’s terrified something is going to snap like a rubber band. His chest is completely emptied of air. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t even scream. A burning static crawls under his skin, burrowing through his core, a thousand bees boring through his bones. 

And just like that, it stops.

Joe slumps forward in his bindings with a pained shudder, stunned and aching. It wasn’t a gun at all. The fucker just _tased_ him. That… that was new. He’s never been tased before today.

He gasps for breath while his muscles spasm randomly, cramping over nothing. “That's all you got?” 

His captor gives him a delighted grin and pulls the trigger again. This time he’s able to scream, echoing off the walls in the massive room. He loses control of his body as all of the air from his lungs is expelled. It goes on for much longer—or maybe it’s worse because he lost the surprise factor. When it finally lets up, he collapses, shoulders screaming in protest as he slumps forward. 

Cassidy steps into his personal space and plucks something out of his leg. Miserably, he can still feel the sudden sting. Attached are long and thin wires, strung between his fingers, that glint silver in the light. Distantly, he realizes it’s what was being used to electrocute him. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Cassidy chirps, turning the taser over with a bright grin. The wires swing from his grip as he holds the needles in the opposite hand, walking away to set the spent taser on a folding table. At least it didn’t look like he’d be using it again. 

Cassidy comes back and stands over him, head tilted to the side, blond hair in his face. He leans down and pats Joe on the shoulder. He’s close enough to bite, but he can’t summon the energy to move. 

He steps over Joe’s legs and makes his way slowly across the room, crouching down in front of the wounded man who tries to cringe away from him. “You should really say thank you,” Cassidy tells him. He looks over at Joe and gives him a charming smile, winking like he’s letting Joe in on a secret. “Well, maybe he would, if he still had a tongue. Ah well.” 

Cassidy doesn’t hesitate to yank the man’s head up by the hair, producing a knife from his hip, sheath hidden by his jacket. It’s efficient and brutal. The wounded man spasms and gags as Cassidy cuts his throat and then stands, leaving him alone to choke on his own blood. Horror squeezes the air from his lungs and Joe can’t force himself to look away. It takes less than thirty seconds for his companion to still, gurgled breaths falling silent. 

“I picked myself,” he whispers, dragging his stunned gaze to the man standing over him. Fury burns bright in his chest, voice cracking as he shouts. “I picked myself- what the FUCK is your problem?”

Cassidy shakes his head, wiping the blood from his knife and looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. “You did! That’s why you were tased, and not him. Saves me the clean up, so I’d say it was a win-win, hm?” 

Joe bares his teeth in a furious snarl, lurching against the handcuffs as he lunges forward. That’s not what any of this meant and he knows it. Cassidy just laughs. 

“Oh, we’re going to have lots of fun, hm? I have some things to do, so try and get some rest! You’ll need it.” He gives Joe a cheerful wave, knife still in hand, and slips back through the door as silently as he came in. Joe is left alone in a brightly-lit room lined with mirrors. His only company is a corpse.


	4. Day 03 - Held at Gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryley sets up a meeting to sell stolen artwork. Things do not go well. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: organized crime, gun violence, death threats, blackmail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You better believe I'm gonna be writing more with these two... I love them so much. Avery is a sweetheart who somehow puts up with Ryley's lack of forethought. 
> 
> Not much happens in this chapter! Honestly, it's more of the set-up for the second half, which will be featured later this month. :)

It’s the middle of the night. They’re sitting silently in their car, idled in the parking lot of a freight bay. Ryley sighs, clenching and unclenching their hands on the steering wheel, trying to work out some of the nervous energy fueled by adrenaline. Avery is sitting next to them, hood up and hands in his pockets. 

He tilts his head a bit at the creak of leather gloves, but he’s polite enough not to comment. He just watches them for a moment before turning his head, staring through the window with an unreadable expression. A wisp of black hair sticks out from his hood and Ryley aches to brush it aside, to tuck it back behind his ear. They look away. 

The pair doesn’t talk much, tension hanging heavy in the air. Ryley turns the heat on its lowest setting to burn away the condensation on their side of the glass. Avery doesn’t need it. 

They’ve arranged to meet with a buyer here; someone interested in their specialty of stolen goods. Despite their best efforts, they’re going in blind. The man they’re supposed to be meeting, Nikolas, certainly has to have _some_ kind of record. But every time they look, the trail goes cold—everything wiped clean as if this man never existed. Ryley doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s a fake identity. They’ve just never seen one of this quality. 

He hasn’t left a single trace. Of the few people they’ve asked, no one has ever sold to him before. Ryley kept their cards close to their chest and mulled it over; it was risky, sure, but they also had the advantage of undercutting their competition. Despite their best judgement, here they were, sitting in a dark car with their boyfriend. 

“Hey.” Avery’s voice is low and he doesn’t turn his head to look at them, but he pulls his hand from his pockets to jerk his thumb past the windshield. Ryley sits up slowly, cracking their knuckles and then rolling their neck. There’s a figure on the other side of the loading bay. Nikolas. 

Ryley steps out of the car slowly, shoulders back and eyes narrowed. They catch sight of their reflection and straighten, slipping into their bored consultant role like a second skin. A dark, locked briefcase is produced from the trunk. Every step is deliberate and slow, unhurried and more than willing to waste Nikolas’ time. Avery keeps a good distance between them, head down and hands shoved in his pockets. 

They’re both wearing leather gloves and a dark half mask for the illusion of anonymity. Ryley has a dress shirt buttoned over a Kevlar-paneled vest, a curved knife hidden in the sheath on their hip. Avery doesn’t need any extra weaponry, sure, but they triple-checked that he was armed to the teeth (ha) with human weapons underneath his clothes. 

Ryley’s hand twitches for a lack of things to do. Their dark hair is slicked back and held in place with pins, gleaming dully in the overhead lights, and they don’t want to risk fucking it up right before a meeting. “Showtime,” they murmur, giving Avery a sidelong glance, gaze glittering with anticipation. He makes eye contact and immediately looks away, shoulders sloping down and head turned. Their heart twists with the rejection, even if they know it’s part of the act.

Ryley takes a slow, measured breath as they cradle the hurt close to their chest and then let it go. Once, twice, three times. With each soft exhale, they let their actual self fall away. No one here would be stupid enough to use their real name. Today they’re Vince, an aloof and distinguished stolen-art broker and one hell of a con man. It’s been a little while since they’ve dusted this identity off, veering a little more masc than they prefer, but it was one of the most reliable facades they could offer for skittish buyers. One of the few personas they’ve built from the ground up, Ryley has earned every one of his accolades with their own blood, sweat, and tears.

Of course, none of Vince’s clients knew that their illicit broker was also the thief pulling the strings behind the curtain. Ryley would laugh and dodge the subject whenever it came up, claiming to have the right connections in all the wrong places. (A few times people have tried to proposition Vince for a special commission. Ryley would sneer that they don’t do anyone’s dirty work, but if the offer was interesting enough, _maybe_ they’d pass it on. It was always fun to raise the prices and watch them squirm—after all, Vince deserved a portion for his hard work, didn’t he?) 

Today, they’re selling paintings swiped from a pre-auction showcase. It was pitifully easy to break into and none of the artwork was securely guarded, which might account for how little interest there is. Nikolas was one of the few willing to pay full price. That had Ryley’s curiosity piqued off the bat. They wanted to see if he was serious, if they could attribute it more to naivety or stupidity. 

The man in question is leaning almost delicately against a rusty shipping crate. Broad-shouldered and dense, they’re already sizing up the odds of taking him out if they have to. He probably has a lot of natural strength, and he certainly outweighs them. But people his size rarely knew how to fight. Ryley is lean and fast. The odds seem fair enough. They’ve fought bigger people and won. 

“Ah, Vince! I was afraid I had the wrong time,” Nikolas laughs. His voice is deep, tinged by an obvious Russian accent. When Ryley offers their gloved hand, he clasps it between both of his own, nearly yanking them off their feet with the force of his handshake. 

He tilts his head at Avery and otherwise ignores him. Ryley had mentioned ahead of time that they would be bringing an apprentice along—it seems his interest ends there, which honestly isn’t a bad thing. The less attention put on Avery, the better. 

“You have the paintings, yes?” Nikolas seems anxious to check that they aren’t scamming him, looking between them and Avery, before his gaze settles on the briefcase. Maybe he isn’t as stupid as they had assumed. Good for him. He takes a step forward with his hand outstretched and Ryley takes a step back, raising an eyebrow and frowning behind their mask. 

“You know the drill,” Ryley states, cool and bored. “Payment upfront.” 

Nikolas sighs. They don’t move from their new position, gaze steely enough that the Russian man relents. “Of course. Nine thousand. It is in my car.” Ryley’s expression flattens, unamused. 

“Sure it is.”

“I was hoping for a discount. But I do have it. Here- I am a man of my word.”

Nikolas stuffs a hand in his pocket, carelessly tossing a stack of cash to Ryley. They barely manage to catch it, giving it an assessing frown before glancing back up at him. Tens, wrapped in a yellow band. If this was legitimate, it was one thousand dollars. Something feels off about this. It’s strange to keep that much money on your person, even for a sketchy dark web deal. Also incredibly suspect if the cash is still wrapped in the bank notary. 

“You have eight more of these in your pockets?” Ryley drawls. “Because if not, I’m walking.”

“Mm, just a moment. I thought we could have more of a... _private_ discussion,” Nikolas purrs, voice low and dangerous. His friendliness is starting to fade the more they push. The threat is obvious. Ryley raises a brow, entirely unimpressed. 

“Whatever you have to say can be said in front of my apprentice.” They make an abortive gesture towards Avery with one hand, dismissive and annoyed. “Speak.” 

Nikolas sighs dramatically, shifting his weight to place one hand on his hip. Ryley’s eyes narrow, but they don’t let their gaze drop from his face even as they casually draw their legs closer together for a better stance. His coat is bulky enough that he could have a gun, sure, but he’d have to draw it before he could shoot. By then, Ryley is pretty sure they could break his nose. 

“I was hoping we could make an _arrangement_. Man to man, yes?” Nikolas tries again. It sounds almost like he’s trying to proposition them. Too bad they’re not a man. There’s some kind of insistence in his tone that Ryley can’t read, something more than the usual greed or impatience they deal with. Nikolas sighs noisily when they merely scowl back.

“Ah, Vince. I see you aren’t the chatty type. That is okay.” The big man puts on a show of being disappointed, reluctance thick in his voice. It’s so insincere that Ryley wants to snap at him for it. 

“I am interested in both paintings, yes. They are very old, very hard to find. The last time I saw them, they were with an old friend. But times change and people change, and sometimes your friends have to be drowned in the river. Y’know?”

Ryley doesn’t let their expression change, not willing to fall for his bluff. Hopefully it was a bluff. His voice is completely remorseless, framing it as a poor business choice rather than apparent murder. They take a half step to the side, shifting their weight to get ready because his hand is still dangerously close to where a holster might be. Nikolas just keeps talking, voice tinged with regret. It’s as close to genuine as they’ve heard from him so far. 

“Vince, you charge too much. You’re supposed to take your cut from the thief, not add it on top. So instead of your price, how about mine?” He takes a moment to tap his chin, head cocked to the side while he makes a show of thinking. “I will take both paintings for, how about, hmm... your life?” 

There’s the click of a gun from behind them. Too focused on Nikolas to watch for anyone else. Of fucking course. Ryley laughs, low and bitter, as they lift their hands to their chest with their palms up. They can’t turn around to check on Avery, but they can see the silhouettes of a few more people. They have to keep the attention on themselves. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

“Figures. Too cheap to pay, too lazy to find your own contractor,” they snarl. Nikolas gives them a half-smile, seeming almost remorseful when he shrugs. 

“You are a nice guy. Unfortunately, business is like this, hm? Well, maybe not. It’s a little bit personal.” He chuckles, low and deep. “I’m a little sentimental. My old friend had a little too much power. I had to get rid of him before he got a big head. But he left the paintings to his son.”

He sizes Ryley up for a minute; they stare back, defiant and unfazed despite the muzzle of a gun hovering between their shoulder blades. 

“I was in the process of buying them when they disappeared. Your _bitch thief_ swiped them,” he snarls. The nice-guy facade is finally starting to crack. Good. 

“Oh, please. You think I asked for them to be stolen?” they sniff, eyes narrowed with haughty disdain. Whoever is standing behind them jabs the gun into their back, forcing them a step forward. Ryley grits their teeth and resists the urge to reach for their knife. “May I remind you, Nikolas, that I merely sell the art that you happen to be buying?”

This time, when he looks at them, the easy-going smile slides off his face like water. Ryley breaks out into a cold sweat, adrenaline thrumming under their skin. They need to run, to fight, to do something. But they’re forced into stillness. Vince isn’t supposed to be the violent type. But tonight, they muse, they’re willing to make an exception. 

“The paintings, Vince. I am not a patient man.” Nikolas cocks his head to the other side, eyes dark and expression cold. He makes eye contact with Ryley and slowly, he smiles. It’s genuine this time, void of anything but a cruel delight, and their heart drops. 

“Or do you need motivation, hm? Sam,” he snaps, jerking his hand towards Ryley. There’s the scuff of boots and a short cry before the awful click of a gun; Ryley goes rigid as they fight every instinct not to whip around. _Avery._

“I offered you _your_ life. I said nothing about the boy.” 

When it’s clear they won’t be shot for moving, Ryley turns their head. Their boyfriend is standing with his hands up, breath shallow and fast, a gun pressed to his temple. His hair is mussed from his hood being yanked off, a dark halo shadowing his face under the industrial lights. He makes eye contact with Ryley and their heart shatters, unable to tell how much of the fear is an act. They’ve seen him survive some nasty wounds. But this? A bullet to the head would kill just about anything. 

“They’re yours.” They don’t hesitate in the way Nikolas seems to be expecting. Ryley bends down, agonizingly slow, to set the briefcase on the pavement. They straighten up just as slowly, conscious of the gun trained right behind them, and kick it towards him. They don’t care about themselves, no, but they can’t do this to Avery. 

“Perhaps I misjudged you,” Nikolas chuckles, stalking forward to scoop up the briefcase. “I thought you only cared about the money.” He cracks the hinge open with an awful pop, checking to make sure both paintings are in there. Ryley has no doubts that they would have been killed on the spot had the briefcase been fake. 

“Is that all?” they grit out, voice low. 

Nikolas hums thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think it is.”


	5. Day 04 - Collapsed Building | Buried Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril sneaks into a metal scrapyard and gets so much more than he bargained for. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: trespassing, blood, collapsed structure, buried alive, claustrophobia, immobilized, nondescript injury, narrator in shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Cy, this is canon! It's actually how he lost his leg. :') Poor dude doesn't even know what's coming for him.

Hoisting himself up and over the fence, Cyril drops to the ground with a soft gasp. He straightens up and staggers for a second as the impact flares up his legs. A little taller than he accounted for, sure, but it wasn’t a bad drop. He stands there for a moment, head tilted while he listens, but it looks like the coast is clear. 

There shouldn’t be anyone here, not at this time of night. The scrapyard was poorly staffed in the middle of the day which meant it was completely empty during the graveyard shift. Perfect for scavenging, digging up anything salvageable to tinker with and pull apart. He didn’t have enough money to buy parts, so he based his engineering projects around a hodgepodge of random pieces he dug out of the trash. Most of the time it didn’t blow up in his face. 

Was there a bit of a moral dilemma here? Sure. Sometimes he felt guilty about it, even if he refused to acknowledge it as theft. But honestly, metal scrap wasn’t worth that much to begin with. A few sheets of metal or some old machine parts won’t be missed. He’s tried to bargain with the owner a few times; he would be happy to genuinely pay for this stuff. Some scrapyards were willing to let people browse, but they’re all so _far_ away and Cyril doesn’t have a car. 

So he’s stuck with this one, a good thirty minute walk from the nearest bus station with an owner who refuses to compromise. A hundred pounds of scrap was worth less than ten dollars and the greedy fuck wanted fifty an hour to come in and look around _on top of_ whatever he would charge for the metal itself. No thanks. 

It was a pain in the ass but Cyril needed parts, especially if he wanted to apply to any engineering programs. You have to have some kind of portfolio, right? Petty theft was his next best option. 

Admittedly, he’s gotten caught once or twice already—though he was only chewed out for trespassing, the last employee who found him threatened to call the cops next time. Cyril chuckles to himself, plucking gloves out of the front pocket before shouldering his backpack. He won’t be in trouble if he’s not caught. Simple. 

He had the forethought to wear long sleeves, at least. Climbing the fence was one issue but combing through the scrap was another; the piles of metal were filled with jagged edges and sharp tips. He dusts himself off and stretches before picking a place to start. Standing at the edges of the smaller piles, he nudges things aside with the toe of his shoe before crouching to investigate. There’s not much spilled over in the outskirts. A few twisted sheets of metal from crushed cars, shards of glass and rusted-out parts that have slid down the heaps. Anything he might be interested in is either too squished or too old to be of use. 

A little digging reveals more of the same. A few weird pipes that definitely aren’t iron, considering how crumpled they’ve gotten, and piles of chicken wire hidden underneath something that looks like a gutted washing machine. He looks over at the looming piles of bent metal and sighs. Ideally, he would’ve found something nice and left already. Guess it’s time to climb. 

The metal scrap wiggles and shifts underneath his feet. It takes a few tries to figure out what he’s doing, trying to avoid causing a small avalanche of miscellaneous things while simultaneously trying not to fall on his ass. It takes a few tries, but eventually, he gets his footing and is able to start climbing. 

His first warning comes easily. Cyril picks his way over one of the smaller piles, testing each foothold before pulling himself forwards. It’s fairly uneventful until halfway down the other side; something shifts under his feet and a piece of framing gives way. He stumbles with a startled yelp and slides the last few steps, hitting the ground hard and nearly eating shit. 

“Wow,” he pants, brow furrowed. 

That was a little unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. This place was a dump- pun intended, he thinks, snickering to himself- and it really seemed like most of this was stacked haphazardly wherever there was space. 

A prickle of unease works its way into the back of his head, but he brushes it aside with a cheerful forced optimism. He’ll just be a little more careful. Especially because the bigger piles were made up of bigger pieces—they would be a lot harder to topple by climbing over them. There’s less to pick from on the tops of these metal mountains, but it gives him a good vantage point. Plus it’s kinda fun. 

He’s there for a few hours with minimal success. He didn’t bring anything to wrench parts loose from the gutted remains of machines; doing that felt a little more illegal than just picking things up from the dirt. A few times there’s an abrupt crash from somewhere else in the scrapyard; Cyril jumps hard the first few times, straining to listen for anyone else who had a similar idea. But he never hears anything. Some combination of exposure and constant stress seems to mean the heaps regularly shift, which is a good thing to keep in mind. 

The crushed cubes that were once cars are heavy but notoriously wiggly. He gives them a wide berth as he lowers himself gingerly onto some kind of beam, giving it a second before putting his whole weight down. Nothing moves, so he’s free to continue his descent. There’s a long, low groan that’s making Cyril increasingly uneasy. Whatever that noise was, it couldn’t be good. 

It’s another few minutes before he’s back on the ground, picking up and pocketing a small wedge of maybe-iron. It could be flattened into something, maybe. Or be used as a doorstop. He’s thinking about heading home when he realizes what he mistook for a building is just a tall, compact pile of junk. One side is flattened almost perfectly. He ends up walking around it, gawking at how tightly-packed everything is. It looked like heavy machinery and crushed cars, the kinds of things that were deposited by magnetic cranes. 

There won’t be anything here for him to take, but it’s cool to look at nonetheless. He steps on a piece of trash: some kind of wrapper that crinkles. That’s when he realizes the low continuous noise apparently… stopped. Everything is eerily, uncomfortably silent. 

There’s a sudden, violent snap from somewhere to his left. Cyril goes rigid. He looks up. He takes a step backwards. Time stretches into something viscous and warped. The heap is starting to move, scrap sliding towards him in slow motion. 

Very clearly, he has enough time to think _oh no_. 

Everything crashes down around him.

There is a cacophony of sound and the impact. He tries to cover his head even as he’s thrown, laying twisted and flat underneath god only knows how much metal. 

His ears are ringing. His head hurts. He groans, eyes opening to stare blearily at the shapes above him. He’s laying flat on his back. Everything has stopped moving, at least. He’s pretty sure he blacked out for… an amount. 

A few seconds? Minutes? He can’t tell. The dust is settling from an ancient pile of debris falling on top of him. There are awful grinding sounds all around him as mystery objects shatter and break under the sudden weight of everything else. Something shifts enough to reveal a tiny patch of sky above him, inky blue with a single star. 

Cyril sighs, pushing his hair out of his face while he takes stock. He’s covered in dust and god-knows-what, but he’s alive. That’s nice. There’s some kind of frame over him—he can’t recognize it from this angle, and it reminds him bizarrely of a soccer goal. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it. It kept him from being squashed like a bug. 

He tries to sit up and finds that he can’t, caught on some kind of debris. He grimaces before tugging harder. Nothing will happen. He’s stuck. Damn it, he’s going to have to call someone. He’s more reluctant to rat himself out, but he’s not going to be able to dig his way out of several tons of metal. If he squirms in place for a little bit, he can prop himself up on his elbows. Nevermind to the previous plan—there’s not a lot of space at all, and his head brushes the top of the frame before he reluctantly, awkwardly lays back down. 

Phone. He stuck his cell phone in his backpack. The one that he’s currently laying on. Okay. Alright. No problem. He can do this. It’s uncomfortable, but Cy manages to shove his shoulder blades into the ground, working one arm underneath the small of his back to try and shimmy his backpack off. There’s a heavy pressure holding his legs in place, but if he just wriggles a little like this, he can just barely reach… there.

Absently, he notices that his backpack is scuffed and dark as he pulls it up towards his head. He paws around blindly, ignoring the few pieces of salvage he shoved in there to find his phone. It’s hard with the gloves. Frustrated, he tears one off and crams it in the backpack too. It’s vaguely wet and he grimaces; Cyril doesn’t want to think about what kind of gross liquids could be trickling down on top of him. 

He fishes his phone out and waits as it powers on, trying to stifle the anxiety blooming in his throat. It’s okay. He’s going to be okay. When it finally lights up, he squints against the sudden glare and then goes cold. His hand is smudged red. Did he cut himself on something…? Cyril turns his hand over, brow furrowed, but doesn’t see any kind of wound. It looks like blood, though. Cy holds his phone up, using the dim light from the screen to try and figure out what he’s looking at. 

The ground is dark. What he originally attributed to shadows is something seeping into the packed dirt. He doesn’t think before he touches it, fingertips coming away wet and _red_. Cyril goes very, very still as panic suddenly squeezes the air out of him. Oh. Oh, no. 

He laughs, hoarse and a little hysterical. Okay. Alright. Maybe he’s not as fine as he thought he was. Nothing hurts, though. Well. His entire body hurts, actually, but nothing hurts badly enough to be producing all of that blood. Maybe he’s in shock. Isn’t that a thing that happens to people? He realizes he’s not entirely sure what shock is, but that’s one of the least pressing concerns. 

His fingers shake as he dials the emergency number and tells the operator who he is and where to find him. They’re sending paramedics because it’s routine, whether or not he’ll need them. And then they ask him if he’s hurt and Cyril hesitates. Dread coalesces in the back of his throat. His voice is unsteady and weak. 

“… yeah, um. I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this isn't an intentional cliffhanger, I'm just continuing it in another chapter :') Sorry if I'm making you wait!


	6. Day 05 - Failed Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever have a bad day and think well, at least that's over? Well. Apparently it's not. (Direct continuation from [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520577/chapters/65109712))
> 
> ... this one is kinda brutal.  
> CONTENT WARNINGS: head trauma, physical violence, restraint, kidnapping, MAJOR character death, graphic description of previous death, graphic description of violence, graphic injury, knife violence, paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This poor guy has no idea what's in store from him. It's still day one of the worst ~six weeks of his life. :')

When Joe startles back into consciousness, everything is dark. He hisses softly as his shoulders pop, grimacing while he digs his fingers in and tries to soothe the immediate ache. He was unshackled after being murdered, apparently, but gravity didn’t care if his arms weren’t meant to bend that way. He couldn’t exactly fix them while he was dead.

His face is stiff and uncomfortable with a mask of dried gore. There’s not much he can do about it, so he doesn’t bother. His shirt collar is glued to his skin; he peels it away with a grimace, stomach turning at how _crunchy_ the fabric feels. His hair, too. It’s cold to the touch and still wet along his scalp. Joe thinks hard for a minute, struggling to remember—it was a sledgehammer, wasn’t it? The man who kidnapped him came downstairs and took off the blindfold. He made eye contact, he stood up and walked away, he came back with the hammer and he smashed Joe’s head in.

He doesn’t remember being in pain. It still makes him nauseous to think that it happened at all.

His eyes are adjusting to the darkness, everything slowly emerging from the gloom in a wash of fuzzy greys, dim lighting coming from a single lightbulb in the corner. It looks like there are more lights dotting the ceiling, but that’s the only one left on. He’s in an unfinished basement. The floor is some kind of stained concrete, the walls bare brick. There’s a door on the far side of the room, some kind of workbench with an array of tools.

Joe rolls his neck before he shoves himself to sit on his knees, body struggling to come back online. He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but it must have been bad, huh? Morbid curiosity has him glancing backward at the grey-brick wall he was leaning against; this time he feels like he might actually be sick, nausea boiling up hot and suffocating in his throat.

There’s a spray of red and brown along the wall, clumps of gore splattered where his head was. It’s flecked with thin pieces of bone, wet clumps of grey matter. There’s an alarming disconnect when he reaches out and almost touches it, realizing that this was _him_. The inside of his head is splattered on the wall, his latest death unceremonious and abrupt.

It’s a little paranoid, but Joe can’t help touching the back of his head. Aside from the blood caked in his hair, there’s no gaping wound, no shattered bone or ruptured skin. His brain seems to be where it belongs. That’s a slight relief, at least.

Once his stomach settles, he manages to get his legs beneath him to stand. It takes a moment to orient himself in the dim light, eyeing the workbench with an uneasy apprehension. Yeah. It’s time to go. He doesn’t particularly want to find out what else the tools could be used for.

The stairs are wooden but seem relatively new. He glances up at the door- closed- and tests the bottom step- silent- while his dread slowly starts to rise. He absolutely does _not_ want to encounter his murderer again, thank you very much. It would take a single squeak to alert the guy to the fact he was trying to escape when he wasn’t even supposed to be alive. After spending what feels like an eternity standing frozen at the bottom of the steps, he takes another step. And another.

Each time, Joe freezes to listen, heartbeat deafening in his ears. He can’t hear anything from upstairs. That’s good. He starts to get a little bolder, climbing the stairs faster. He takes a moment to breathe, trying to tamp down the panic rising. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know where his _murderer_ is. But he’s got surprise on his side, at least for now. He’s not supposed to be alive.

Joe holds his breath and opens the door, squinting against the sudden light.

He steps out into a kitchen. The floor is polished wood, and it seems relatively older than the stairs. Somewhere, he can hear the drone of a television. That should be enough to cover his footsteps, thank god. He pulls the door closed and risks leaving it ajar, not sure how loud it will be when it closes. Hopefully finding an entire corpse missing will freak the dude out. The thought makes him want to laugh.

(There’s not much to laugh about in situations as bleak as these, but god, at the very least he has to try.)

The door is right there. It’s an open kitchen, a short hall, and then freedom. He can do this. Joe takes a step forward, heart in his throat. It’s silent. He waits for a second and takes another step, glancing down to make sure he’s not stepping on any obvious faults. This time, it creaks. He pauses, heart pounding, hoping that wasn’t enough to give him away. It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t the one who creaked. Joe looks back up and damn near screams. 

The man who killed him is standing in the hallway.

He’s absolutely massive, broad shoulders and made entirely of muscle. His biceps are probably the size of Joe’s head. He’s wearing cargo pants and boots that are splattered with fresh mud; Joe is almost certain he’s wearing the same thing as when his head was bashed in, so it’s the same day. Maybe. Probably.

The guy is staring at him like he’s seen a ghost, visibly trying to process what he’s looking at. Joe doesn’t dare move, holding perfectly still and hoping maybe he can use the surprise to sprint for it. He’ll probably be faster, right? He’s so much smaller. He takes a single breath and throws himself forward, making a mad dash for the door.

Too late.

The big guy had the same thought and he’s too fucking fast. Just as he darts forwards a step or two, the other man leaps. He has a split second to register the blur diving towards him. There’s absolutely no chance to try and get out of the way. There’s nowhere to go.

Joe shrieks, terror spilling over into a blind panic as he’s tackled hard. The air is forced from his lungs, sound cut off with a wheeze as he hits the wood floor. The impact is bad enough, but having this behemoth of a man on top of him is worse. He’s not even sure which way is up. He rolls and tries to scramble in any direction possible. He manages to climb to his hands and knees but he’s dragged back by the ankle.

Yelping, he kicks blindly to try and shake the guy off, but the killer drags him close enough to grab. Joe panics as he loses precious ground. He changes tactics. He throws himself into the other guy, fingers twisted into claws as he swipes at his eyes. The other man twists away at the last second and Joe’s nails rake down the side of his face, tearing skin with a brief stab of satisfaction. But it cost him too much ground. Now he’s boxed in. The massive fuck grabs his wrist and pushes him into the floor. He manages to pin him enough that Joe can’t even thrash, breath coming hard and fast while the big guy stares at him with wide blue eyes and blood dripping into his beard.

The guy seems to make a decision and he puts a hand right across Joe’s throat, enough pressure that he can’t breathe. Joe’s eyes widen and he bucks, trying to shake the guy’s grip, but it doesn’t work. He doesn’t even budge, pressing down harder. Joe gasps for the smallest trickle of air, desperate and frantic, wondering if the bastard is going to choke him out right here on the floor. His struggling tapers off. Just as the edges of his vision start to get fuzzy, the pressure lets up. He gulps down as much air as he can, dizzy and stunned enough that he can’t fight back when the guy gets off of him and _hauls him upright_. He flails and he’s lifted clean off the ground, put into some kind of chokehold and walked backward. Away from the door. Back towards the stairs.

He’s not going back in the damn murder room, fuck no. He’s weak but sheer adrenaline gives him enough for one last attempt at escape. Joe’s frantic scratching at the guy’s arm has no effect. He’s desperate and panicking. He twists his head and bites down _hard_ , teeth tearing through skin and mouth filling with salt and copper. It almost works. The killer’s grip slackens as he gasps and tries to jerk away, but the smaller man doesn’t let go. He just bites down harder and tries to tear the skin from his arm, choking on blood that isn’t his.

Everything twists to the side and Joe is forced to let go as a knife buries itself in his stomach.

His scream is muffled by the forearm in his mouth; the big guy immediately snatches it back when Joe’s bite weakens, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him across the floor. He kicks with much less vigor as blood spills down his abdomen, staring blankly at the hilt sticking out of him. It looks like it’s fake. It doesn’t quite process that there’s a knife sticking out of him.

The blade is buried at such an angle that every step he’s dragged and every breath he takes forces another spike of pain through him. The killer is kind enough to pull the knife from his gut, but he twists it sharply enough that Joe’s vision whites out with the pain. They stop moving with a soft creak and suddenly he’s being pulled down. Joe spasms and cries out, trying to get some kind of traction. His shoes skid on the trail of blood he’s leaving. He’s dragged down the stairs.

His legs are forced up from the angle, putting too much pressure on the stab wound. Every step jostles him. Pain flares through his core. His blood feels too hot or his skin feels too cold, or maybe even both. He tries to kick at the stairs with the hope that he can knock them off balance; maybe the guy would be forced to drop him and he’d break his neck on the way down. But unfortunately, everything is blurry and he’s too weak to do much more than catch a step or two with the side of his shoe, nowhere near enough to make a difference. Darkness swallows him up as he’s pulled into the basement.

He’s dragged to a closer wall than where he was shackled the first time, propped up against the brick. The killer steps away and he doesn’t even try to escape. Before he can think about standing up, the dude is back, forcing his arms up as he winds a coarse rope around Joe’s wrists, binding him to some kind of metal pipe. He doesn’t struggle. He can’t. He just stretches his legs out in front of him, trying to take some of the pressure off the stab wound. A low groan bubbles from his chest.

The rope work is complicated and tight, fingers already going numb before the guy steps away. It makes the pain even more apparent.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes sliding closed again. His heart rate was a little higher than he wanted it to be and he can feel fresh blood trickling down his side. He notes briefly that his blood-soaked jeans were probably toast and would actually laugh if it didn't take so much effort. Like that's what was important right now. He can feel himself bleeding out, weak from the searing pain that’s leaching into his bones, every thudding heartbeat sapping more of his strength.

When he looks up again, the killer is pacing, blood splattering on the concrete from the chunk taken out of his arm. Joe feels a flicker of satisfaction that washes away in a haze of pain when he tries to readjust. His eyes water from the sharpness that tears through him, but he only makes a low, strained noise and grits his teeth, face twisting.

He’s pretty sure he hears the guy whisper a soft “what the fuck” and looks up to see the bastard staring at him. He decides not to respond, instead forcing his breathing to even out again- deeper breaths hurt more, sure, but hyperventilating made him lightheaded and unable to think. He isn't sure if he bit his tongue or if he can taste his own blood in the air.

He exhales softly, closing his eyes to try and focus on slowly bleeding out. He can hear something crinkle. Joe cracks one eye open, watching the man pace with an open package of gauze pads in one hand, wiping off his arm with a grimace. The wound is deep and jagged; his movements are awkward and stilted, which makes Joe hope the fucker was right-handed. He actually feels a little proud.

“Are you gonna kill me or not?” he snaps, throat dry and expression as venomous as he can manage. The killer freezes and turns to look at him. His eyes are wide, face pale, hands shaking. Like _Joe_ is the one to be afraid of.

“How are you still alive?” the man whispers. His voice is low and gravelly, hoarse like he doesn’t speak all that often. Hard to socialize when you kill people, Joe supposes. A familiar wave of exhaustion washes over him, bone-deep and absolute. Not only is he dying, but he doesn’t even have a minute to rest. He can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness.

“Does it really matter?”

“You’re... you’re not...” The killer looks between Joe and the spray of blood decorating the wall, eyebrows knit together as he tries to understand. It would be kind of funny if Joe wasn’t bleeding out. He grits his teeth as ice climbs up his spine, a cold sweat prickling over his chest.

“Kill me,” Joe repeats through grit teeth. Put him out of his damn misery already. The guy just stares at him for a long, breathless moment before he turns and starts pacing again, ignoring the man tied to a fucking radiator on the floor at his feet. A single flicker of anger is all Joe can manage, slumping against the rope and hoping he’ll at least be unconscious soon.

There’s the creak of floorboards upstairs and his captor goes rigid, even paler than before. That’s enough to make Joe uncomfortable. There’s a sudden red light that catches his eye, turning his head to see a surveillance camera mounted on the wall. That... couldn’t have been on, earlier, when he was alone. He thinks he would have noticed it.

His murderer lets out a tense breath, looking at the camera and slowly looking back at Joe. His face is drawn and tension radiates from every line in his body. He makes eye contact with Joe and looks away, good hand reaching across his body to pull a knife from the opposite side of his hip. Blood drips from the bite on his arm. Joe’s lip curls, eyeing the knife and trying to bury the instinct to try and hide.

“Kill me, you fucking coward,” he hisses, voice low and weak. His captor gives him a look that is almost anguished, jarring with the bloody furrows on his cheek. He crouches to the side of Joe’s splayed legs, resting the tip of the knife against the smaller man’s chest. Right over his heart.

“I’m sorry,” his murderer breathes, pale eyes wide and filled with grief. The knife pricks his skin through his shirt as Joe tries to take one last breath, eyes closing.

The knife is pushed into his chest with a flare of white-hot pain. The blade buries itself in his heart and Joe is dead by the time it’s pulled back out.


	7. Day 06 - no more | "Stop, please"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesper is cut open and gutted with loving detail; the only problem is that he's still awake. 
> 
> Morgan is their own content warning bc they’re a nasty piece of work, but seriously, this is intense. There's graphic gore and a very heavy subtext of sexual coercion.   
> CONTENT WARNINGS: Non-consensual touching (sfw but suggestive), medical trauma, manipulation, vivisection, blood and injury, implied abusive relationship, restraints, begging, extremely graphic injury, surgery while awake, power imbalance, explicit gore, narrator in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to stay consistent with the prompts, this is actually skipping ahead a decent amount. You'll see an earlier version of Vesper, back when he was still human, on day 9. :D

The scalpel runs from sternum to navel, a single line of pressure that delicately splits the skin. A moment later is when the pain registers, an insistent heat as blood wells up and spills down his bare chest. There’s an awful metallic shriek as Vesper’s claws dig into the steel table for purchase.

He tries not to make any sound as Morgan opens him up, the pale green of their surgical gloves a striking juxtaposition against the dark red spray of blood. His breathing is shallow and fast, a low whine forming in the back of his throat, sweat beading on his brow. The muscles in his legs spasm as he tries to lessen the pain, squirming uselessly as he tries to pull away from the knife.

He’s strapped down. There’s nowhere to go.

The researcher above him hums, running a gloved finger over the seam cut down his chest, smearing the blood spilled across his mottled skin. The wound throbs with the touch, pain settling deep in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs open.

It hurts. It always does. He knows Morgan doesn’t care.

Every time his breathing stutters, every time they coax a sharp gasp or an uneasy hiss from his lungs, their pale eyes scour his face to drink in every sign of pain. They delight in seeing him suffer. They’ve made it clear time and time again. Their bright human eyes watching him fall apart under their knife, reducing him to a trembling mess as pain robs him of the ability to speak, the ability to beg.

It’s the only time Morgan is ever _kind_.

Their touch is almost gentle as they run a cotton towel over the incision and the white fabric immediately stains crimson. The color flickers at the edge of his vision, headache-inducing under the harsh laboratory lighting. Vesper grits his teeth and a low noise leaves him. It’s fully involuntary, entirely pathetic.

Morgan’s hands pause on his bare skin, no doubt leaving bloody handprints across his stomach. The scalpel is set down with a soft clatter. They suddenly lean into his limited field of vision, their wild tangle of white hair backlit like they were some kind of fallen angel. Glittering eyes study every inch of his face, blue as ice and just as cold, expression shadowed and unreadable. He would ask for mercy if he could. Even if he already knows the word has no meaning here.

Vesper stares up at them. His chest feels tight and empty; a yawning void takes up residence inside of him. He doesn’t have the strength to cry. The pain is a second entity inside of his head, pushing out rational thoughts and fears.

Morgan leans down, face only inches from his. They’re so close. Close enough he can feel their soft breaths on his face. Their lips part with a soft laugh as Vesper leans into their touch, red eyes unfocused and glassy, ears pinned back. He’s out of it. He knows they’re hurting him, but all he can focus on is the way they touch him, soft and slow like he was something delicate. His lips move in a silent plea, but there’s no sound.

Their fingertips trail almost lovingly along the seam cut down his chest, reigniting the ache. They watch him with rapt attention, expression dark with some kind of terrible excitement. Vesper can’t look away.

They tease the edges of the cut, brushing touches with featherlight pressure that keep his nerves crackling with pain. Without warning, Morgan digs their fingers into the wound. Vesper’s back arches off the table and he lets out a ragged cry, tears stinging his eyes. The restraints pull taut as he thrashes blindly. Just as soon as they had begun, Morgan stops, withdrawing their hand and absentmindedly wiping the blood on his hip.

“Shhh… there, there,” Morgan coos, voice soft and sickly sweet. Sometimes Vesper thinks they smell like almonds, breath laced with the cyanide dripping from their words. The scientist trails a gentle hand across his cheek and Vesper quivers, a broken sound coming from his lips. He refuses to acknowledge it as a sob. It doesn’t seem to bother Morgan, either. Their hand trails over his jaw to cup the side of his face. Against his will, Vesper relaxes.

They sit like that for a few long moments, and foolishly, Vesper begins to think it’s over. He doesn’t think much about the way they lean forwards slowly like they’re trying not to be noticed. He doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until the scrape of metal-on-metal has them snapping open again, body jerking in the restraints.

Morgan sighs, long and drawn out. “Shhh, Vesper,” they murmur. Actually using his name is one way to get his attention. He stares up at them, something like fear coiling thick in his throat. He can see the glint of the scalpel in their hand.

“Please. Please don’t,” he whispers. The look Morgan gives him is patronizing. They even pat his cheek. The scalpel bites into his skin again, tracing along the soft, vulnerable flesh of his stomach. Vesper chokes back a cry and holds as still as he can, unable to stop himself from trying to jerk away. Blood spills hot and thick down his sides, his waist, his thighs.

Morgan is opening him up like they’re going to take him apart. The line down his chest splits into an upside-down T, skin peeled back to expose glistening muscle. This is one of the few times his head isn’t strapped into place, but Vesper is too weak to keep craning up. He doesn’t want to see this. He feels like he might throw up if it wouldn’t rip him into pieces.

“Beautiful,” the human coos, leaning forward with a rapt and hungry glitter in their eyes. Vesper has never felt so helpless, so insignificant. There’s a sudden pressure on his stomach, a burning pain that flares into white-hot agony. Morgan digs the blade in harder, cutting through the thin layer of muscle.

Vesper feels it give way with a sickening glide—it’s almost like he’s being unzipped. His stomach turns, nausea welling up. He’s too focused on the searing agony of being dissected to notice the way Morgan is watching him with a grin. He does, however, notice when their hand slides down his chest. Vesper grits his teeth as they push on the incisions, forcing more blood to ooze sluggishly from between their fingers.

“Morgan-” he warns, voice low and wavering. He doesn’t expect them to back off. If anything, the researcher just smiles at him, sickly-sweet and condescending before they dig their fingers into his abdominal cavity. His head bangs against the metal table. His toes curl as he screams without sound, wheezing as he gasps for air and shakes. Their fingers work underneath the muscle holding his organs in place.

Morgan slides their hand _inside of him_. The feeling is so alien and wrong that Vesper almost wants to laugh, but he can’t even gasp without feeling like he’s being torn in half. Tears drip down his face, scratching hard enough at the steel table that pieces of his claws chip off. The human takes no notice, stroking along his intestines gentle and slow, the bastardization of a lover’s touch. He tries to look up. Vesper only sees a mess of red and tan before his head thunks against the table again, a low moan being torn from the deepest part of his chest.

“You’re much warmer than I expected,” Morgan breathes. The demon wants to laugh, to cry, to do anything other than lay here with his torso carved open and a hand rummaging through his organs. Hysterically, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to be made into a bag. Maybe that’s what they’ll do with his corpse when they finally kill him. Vesper chokes on a laugh that gurgles in his throat, shattering into a scream when Morgan grabs something and _squeezes_.

He gags, kicking uselessly at the air as he tries not to vomit. He doesn’t have anything in his stomach to even throw up. Morgan exhales softly, pushing their chair back and standing up. Vesper panics. They’re going to leave him here? Like this? He’s going to bleed to death. He’s going to exsanguinate in an hour. Tears wet his hair, dripping down his face and his flattened ears. He’s in so much pain. Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad.

Morgan returns a moment later, setting down a tray of tools with a soft clink. He can’t do it. He tries to say something; the words stick in his throat, tongue heavy and useless in his mouth. They pick something up and bring it to the mess of his stomach, but he can’t feel anything happen and they’re already setting it down again. They do this a few more times before he realizes they’re taking samples. The biopsy needles hurt like a bitch. He’s both surprised and relieved he can’t feel them.

They dispose of their soaked gloves and seem to put on a new pair. The carved flaps of muscle are settled back into place without much ceremony, and slowly, Morgan starts to put him back together. Vesper sobs, relief and pain overwhelming into a white static in his head. It takes hours, days, weeks. He doesn’t know. Nothing exists outside of the sting from the needle, the awful feeling of his skin being pulled back together, the surety and stillness of Morgan’s hands. They work their way slowly back up his body and Vesper lets himself drift.

Whenever they seem to be done, they towel the blood from his skin. They’re rougher than before but still surprisingly gentle. He’s a mess, stuck to the table with blood and sweat, nearly delirious from the pain and exhaustion weighing him down. For some reason, they start to touch him. Soft, gentle touches following his incisions, then moving up his shoulders, following the curve of his throat.

Vesper’s brow furrows with a distant concern when Morgan stops at his jaw. Their thumb brushes the tip of one tooth. His teeth- his new teeth, black and jagged, a far cry from human- don’t fit in his mouth anymore. There are four fangs that he can’t close his mouth around, two on the top and two on the bottom, awkwardly jutting from between his lips like tusks.

Everything feels so far away and hazy. Every breath tears him open further, every tiny movement carving him open from the inside. His insides are nearly on the outside. At this point, they might actually be. Everything hurts. He can’t distinguish the flood of sensations.

The taste of copper floods his mouth. A moment later, Morgan coaxes his jaw open, prodding at his lips before two fingers wriggle into his mouth.

Their gloves must still be bloody, he realizes. He can taste his own blood on their hands. 

Vesper makes a low sound, trying to spit out a question. All he can manage is a muffled whine as he stares up at them, not understanding what they’re trying to do, why their hand is in his mouth. Morgan laughs again, soft and pleasant, even as their bloody fingers press his tongue down. They nudge his mouth open wider so they can fit their whole hand between his fangs, even though it makes his jaw ache.

It’s hard to breathe like this. Their fingertips nudge against the back of his tongue, pulling back to investigate the curve of his obsidian teeth from the inside. The demon huffs a breath through his nose, anxious and confused. The thought flickers past to bite them so they pull their hand away, but Vesper was just flayed open and still breathing. He’d like to stay that way. He lets the idea go.

Morgan’s hand shoves back into his mouth, nearly making him gag as they press further back. An irrational worry blooms in his chest, convinced they’re going to reach down his throat and pluck out his heart. His chest tightens like it could possibly prevent it. He wants them to stop.

Just as he’s starting to panic in earnest, Morgan withdraws their hand. The demon sputters for air, chest heaving even though it hurts. It hurts enough that his eyes sting and tears roll down his face before he can bottle them back up. He feels broken. He feels like he’s been taken apart and put back together wrong, mismatched and uneven.

Morgan touches his face again. They say something to him that sounds garbled and tinny, distant like he’s underwater or very far away. Something about “docile when in pain” and “human organs”. The words roll off of him, meaningless and distant, but then Morgan moves closer and brushes his hair back with their gloved hand. He falls still. His eyes slide back to their face. He watches as their lips form the word “good”.

There’s a dizzy need to lean towards them, a thin whimper slipping past his lips. The chasm is yawning in his chest again and threatening to swallow him whole. He wants to be good. He wants their approval. Those pale eyes skewer him in place, stripping him bare and cutting down to the bone, carving open his very soul. Vesper stares back for as long as he can. It’s too soon before he has to look away, and he misses the smile flickering on Morgan’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I thrive with feedback. Kudos make me wiggle a little and comments make me vibrate with glee.


End file.
